My 9-year-old was ready to spend his screen time. But you know that feeling, stumbling around to find quality television for an elementary schooler?
In a blast from my ‘80s past, I delighted to find The Cosby Show on Amazon. (I mean, sort of. Now there’s this niggling in my mind, as if I missed something in those eight years of regular Thursday nights, my chin propped on my palms as I lay on the shag carpet.) In a few minutes, I could hear my son giggling from the next room. “Mom! You’ve gotta come see this part!” We chuckled together over Theo and Rudy, and over Dr. Huxtable imitating a woman in labor.
My son’s enthrallment was only three weeks before Mr. Cosby was led somberly in handcuffs from a Pennsylvania courthouse, prison-bound following his conviction of sexual assault. Like so many, I groaned at the disparity: Perfect, hilarious TV family. Lurid, devastating real life.
It’s fairly easy to chuck stones at this man who’s tumbled from such a shocking height, at this man who caused America’s families to laugh weekly for nearly a decade. He advocated winsomely—far beyond the camera—for the advancement of African-Americans.
But perhaps we could all find pause, including those of us snuggled in near-picture-perfect families.
What if what we choose to put “on camera,” performing for the world, isn’t the real us at all?
